The Ruin

by Richard Lee Byers

  A crimson sun was sinking in the west, and all things considered, Will wondered if he and his friends would hold out long enough for one last look at the stars.

  “On the left!” Pavel shouted.

  Will jerked around to see a stubby-legged ice drake, its ivory scales tinged with blue, charging straight at them. He spun his sling, and his companions loosed their arrows. Some of the shafts lodged in the creature’s hide, but didn’t stop it.

  Hovering, Jivex stared and shrouded the larger reptile’s head in an illusory mass of flame. That didn’t balk it, either.

  Madislak scrambled up behind the warriors, brandished a bronze sickle, and growled a word of power. Sprouting in an instant, brambles thick as a warrior’s arm, with thorns as long as daggers, erupted from the ground and twined around the ice drake. The wyrm roared and bounded onward, breaking its bonds apart as if they were no more substantial than cobwebs.

  “Steady!” Stival called. “Steady! Flank it if you can.”

  Head still burning, or at least appearing to, though its body radiated a chill that made Will’s body clench, the drake leaped into their midst. Two Sossrim fell, crushed and torn beneath its claws. Its broad, flat tail flicked and smashed the skull of a warrior seeking to scramble around behind it.

  Will scurried underneath it, stabbed twice with his short sword, and dodged clear. That put him near Pavel, bashing away with his mace, and Natali, hacking with her blade. Though she remained human in other respects, the excitement of combat had given her round golden owl eyes.

  A blue-white wing hammered down at them, and they jumped out of the way. The drake wheeled toward them, jaws opening wide. Dorn lunged from somewhere and ripped at the base of its neck with his talons.

  Then Madislak stepped in front of it. “Look at me,” he rapped, and the wyrm did.

  A grayness washed through its scales, and it screeched. It strained to reach for the old man with its jaws, but its body was already stiffening and slowing into immobility. Its tail twitched a final time, then it froze into a figure of lifeless granite.

  Will grinned at Madislak. “Nice trick.”

  “Point me at another wyrm,” said Madislak, his eyes closed. “I need to make the most of this magic before it runs its—”

  He took a lurching step forward, then buckled at the knees and waist. Stival caught him just before he could collapse entirely, then Will saw the arrow jutting from his back.

  The halfling looked around and discovered onrushing tribesmen and frost giants. Either they’d fought their way through the treants and animals guarding the forest, or else Zethrindor had translated them onto the ridge with his sorcery. Will suspected the latter, not that it mattered. They were here, attacking by surprise, and the dragons, inspired by the appearance of reinforcements, redoubled their efforts to wreak havoc.

  Will started to switch out his sword for his sling, then realized some of the charging barbarians were only a stride or two away. In the mad, screaming confusion of the moment, he hadn’t noticed until then. He dodged a chop from an axe, darted behind his attacker, and sliced his hamstring. Sensed a threat behind him, he whirled, parried a spear thrust, and lunged to bury his sword in his second attacker’s guts. Hesitated, momentarily uncertain what to do next, with combatants twice as tall as himself lunging, stamping, and reeling all around him.

  Surrounded as he was, he could no longer see the dragons, but he could hear them roaring and snarling close at hand, and people shrieking. He was sure the reptiles were overrunning the formation, but when the final barbarian crumpled with Dorn’s talons buried in his chest, and the wall of human bodies broke apart, he saw it hadn’t happened. Despite the distraction of new opponents leaping out of nowhere, the Sossrim line had held.

  But at a ghastly cost. Dozens of warriors had fallen. So had Madislak and several of his fellow spellcasters, and the defenders could afford those casualties even less. This pretty much answers my question, Will thought. I won’t get a chance to bid farewell to the stars.

  But there was no point regretting it, or thinking about anything but fighting as well as he could. He’d just about exhausted his supply of sling stones, and accordingly inspected the bodies—some inert, some screaming, moaning, or twitching—littering the gory, trodden snow.

  He spotted a dead barbarian who’d been a slinger, and as he stooped to untie the fringed leather pouch of rocks from his belt, noticed his attire. Evidently he’d served Iyraclea for a while, for, unlike the recent conscripts, he wore a tunic crudely dyed with the Frostmaiden’s emblem, the white snowflake in the gray diamond.

  For some reason, the badge tugged at Will’s attention. Frowning, he struggled to figure out why, then cursed at himself. “I’m an imbecile!”

  “Finally,” panted Pavel, laying a quarrel in the groove atop his arbalest, “a moment of clarity.”

  “Don’t be snotty,” Will replied, “you’re one, too. We all are, not to understand what’s right in front of us. And I need a real spellcaster, not a charlatan!”

  He turned, casting about for a wizard or druid. Those who yet survived were conjuring frantically. Would any of them pause long enough to listen to him? Would the defense crumble if one of them did?

  Jivex flitted around to hover in front of his face. “What are you looking for?” the faerie dragon asked.

  “You. I need to go down the hill to the other part of Zethrindor’s army. You need to fix it so nobody kills me on the way. Can you do it?”

  The little dragon sniffed. “Of course! Am I not Jivex?”

  “Then let’s go.”

  They worked their way through the Sossrim formation—or what was left of it—to the top of the ridge. Jivex faded from sight, and a moment later, magic seethed and tickled across Will’s skin.

  “We’re ready,” said the drake.

  Will took a breath, steadying himself, then stepped over a corpse and through a broken place in the rampart of branches and snow. A warrior exclaimed in surprise and reached to haul him back. But the human was too slow, and too wary of the enemy host spread out below, to come out from behind the barrier to save a lone outlander from the consequences of his folly. Will hurried on downhill, wading and slipping in the cold, deep snow, past the bodies of those who’d fallen trying to take the summit.

  “Not so fast,” Jivex said, his voice seemingly sounding from empty air. “To the bad people, you look like a wounded dwarf struggling to rejoin his comrades. If you want the trick to be convincing, you have to creep and stagger, not sprint like you’re trying to win a race.”

  “We are trying to win a race,” Will said. But he slowed down as much as he could bear.

  A few breaths later, a mixed band of frost giants and barbarians charged the top of the ridge. Will cringed as they pounded nearer, but most of them ran by without paying him any mind. One huge warrior in the rear of the pack, however, its eyes and matted beard both piss-yellow, broke stride to peer at him.

  “It’s nothing,” crooned Jivex’s disembodied voice, “just a dying dwarf. Keep running. You don’t want the other giants to have all the fun.”

  The creature thundered on. Jivex had evidently tampered with its thoughts.

  Will surveyed the troops ahead, most of whom appeared to be preparing for another advance. A company of arctic dwarves caught his eye. The treachery he’d experienced at such folk’s hands scarcely served to inspire confidence in their kind, but his long friendship with Raryn did. He tramped in their direction, through other warriors who gave him no more than a glance.

  “All right,” he said, “I need to look like myself again.”

  “That sounds dangerous,” Jivex answered. “But suit yourself.”

  Will couldn’t feel his mask of illusion dissolve, but it was obvious when it did. The nearest dwarves—a glum, bedraggled, hungry-looking lot, who, judging from the wounded lying on the ground at the rear of the troop, had been up the hill at least once already—goggled at him. One fellow leveled his spear and charged.

&nb
sp; “Wait!” said Will, retreating a step. “I’m not here to fight!”

  His assailant didn’t heed him. But Jivex shimmered into view and puffed sparkling vapor into his face. Giggling, the dwarf stumbled to a halt and allowed the broad flint point of his weapon to droop to the ground.

  “We’re not here to fight!” Will insisted. “Would the two of us sneak into the midst of your army to do battle all by ourselves? We want a parley.”

  A dwarf even more massively built than his fellows, with white, braided mustachios that dangled far longer than his tuft of beard, stepped forth. He carried a warhammer with a steel head and wore a coat of mail, marks, most likely, of authority, but looked just as haggard and morose as the common warriors in his charge. He gave the newcomers an appraising look, then shook his head as if unable to decide what to make of them.

  “If you’re here bearing the Sossrim’s offer of surrender,” he said at length, “I’ll take you on to Zethrindor.”

  “We didn’t come to see him,” said Will. “We came to talk to you, and all the ordinary folk compelled to follow him. You need to know: The Ice Queen is dead.”

  The dwarf snorted. “What?”

  “Iyraclea’s dead. Jivex and I saw her die ourselves.”

  Another dwarf spat. “This is a trick.”

  “Obviously,” said the captain, “and a daft one at that. Fools, surrender yourselves or die.” His warriors lifted their weapons.

  “Please,” said Will, “listen to what we have to say, then judge.”

  “Perhaps you noticed,” the leader said, “we’re in the midst of battle. My comrades and I have no time for idiotic lies.”

  The other dwarves spread out to flank the newcomers, and Will felt a pang of fear and frustration. By the silent steps of Brandobaris, why had he ever imagined that ploy could work? He hesitated, uncertain whether to surrender or fight—neither option seemed likely to extend his life for very long—then Jivex swooped to position himself directly in front of the captain.

  The faerie dragon crooned, “We’re your friends, come to help you. You have to listen.”

  The dwarf’s bright blue eyes blinked as if in momentary confusion, and Will realized Jivex had attempted to color his thoughts and feelings with magic. It was a risky tactic, for if the captain or any of his command comprehended what had happened, they’d surely respond violently.

  But no one threw a spear or axe, and after another heartbeat, the officer said, “I … speak your piece then. Quickly.”

  “All right,” said Will. “As I told you, the Ice Queen’s dead, I swear by the Hand of Fellowship, she is, and if my oath’s not enough for you, consider this: Didn’t she used to appear to you, glowing and taller than a mountain in the western sky? Has she done it lately?”

  The captain frowned. The warriors murmured.

  “No, she hasn’t,” Will persisted. “Because she can’t. She’s gone!”

  A towering, azure-haired frost giant came striding up, sword in hand, a bloody strip of linen knotted about his brow, and an empty quiver flopping on his hip. He was slimmer and not as coarse-featured as the majority of his race, with an air of youthful energy that the hardships of the campaign had yet to smother. On the Great Glacier, giants and dwarves were bitter foes, but perhaps their enforced servitude in the same host had stifled the traditional animosity, for his manner was brisk and matter-of-fact.

  “We’re about to move,” he rumbled, his voice deeper than most any human’s and certainly any halfling’s. Then he caught sight of Will and Jivex, and stared in amazement.

  “They claim,” said the dwarf with the plaited mustachios, hope and doubt mingled in his voice, “that the Ice Queen is dead.”

  “She is,” said Will, “and what’s more, all the white dragons and landwyrms and such are here. Every hissing, slithering one of them! Do you understand what that means? Nobody’s ruling over the Great Glacier anymore. Nobody’s holding the kin you left behind hostage to coerce your obedience. You aren’t obliged to fight this pointless war. You can go home.”

  The giant studied him for a time, then sighed and shook his head. “I think I could almost believe you, small one. Maybe because it seems unlikely anyone would have the nerve to peddle such a bold lie. But what does it matter? Whatever’s happening back on the ice, the dragons rule us here.”

  “To the Abyss with the dragons!” cried Will. “They can’t stand against all of you and all the Sossrim, too. We’ll kill them together, and afterwards, you can depart in peace. All we have to do is find a way to stall the next attack while we pass the word from one company to—”

  A horn blared, and others answered. The invading army lurched into motion, feet crunching in the snow. A few warriors shouted battle cries. Most just trudged with taut, grim, weary faces, their reluctance manifest. But everyone marched. As the sun touched the western horizon, Zethrindor was hurling every iota of his strength at the folk on top of the ridge.

  Will cursed. Thanks to Jivex, the dracolich’s captive warriors had actually listened to him, actually seemed as if they might believe him. But he was out of time.

  Jivex narrowed his eyes and gritted his teeth in a grimace of concentration. A dozen high-pitched, slightly sibilant disembodied voices, each sounding like his own but considerably louder, cried out at various points above the ragged ranks of striding warriors: “The Ice Queen is dead!”

  “The Ice Queen is dead!”

  “The Ice Queen is dead!”

  Startled, bewildered, people stopped to peer around. The advance ground to a halt.

  Unfortunately, the phantom voices also brought Zethrindor leaping up from the center of the host. Vast, leprous wings beating, the undead white soared above his warriors, many of whom crouched and cowered despite the months they’d had to grow accustomed to him. Plainly, he was seeking the source of the disturbance.

  We could hide, Will thought. Or Jivex could cloak me in another illusion, and turn himself invisible. But he doubted such measures would serve, and in any case, his instincts told him that if he showed fear, his attempt to sway the folk of the glacier would come to nothing. He needed to stand his ground and brazen the situation out.

  “Hey, stinky!” he yelled, waving his hand. “If you’re looking for us, we’re over here!”

  Zethrindor wheeled. Luminous in the gray, failing light, his sunken, silvery eyes glared. Will took care not to look at them straight on, lest they paralyze him, but tried his best not to appear to flinch, also. To look brave and confident as the gigantic, festering horror, his pallid scales slimy with pockets of rot, plummeted down at him.

  “Don’t worry,” Jivex said, “this puny thing’s not even as big as the dracolich I killed in the Gray Forest.”

  Will surprised himself by laughing. Because he’d been holding his breath without realizing it, the sound came out in a stuttering, strangled sort of way. “Thank you for that piece of information. It’s very reassuring.”

  Folk babbled in alarm and scurried out from under Zethrindor’s swelling shadow. One dwarf wasn’t quick enough, and the white’s hind foot pulverized him as he slammed down on the ground. The jolt made Will stagger a step.

  “I thought I spotted you and your friends,” Zethrindor growled, “fighting among the Sossrim.”

  “Your ice drake said you want to talk to us,” said Will. Maybe it was the only reason the dracolich hadn’t slaughtered Jivex and him on sight. “Right before we killed it. Well, here we are, and we’ll be happy to chat, but I have some business to finish first. I thought your troops would enjoy hearing tidings from home.”

  He looked around. Dwarves, barbarians, and giants had all gathered round in a circle to witness the confrontation. In essence, he had the attention of the entire army.

  “Iyraclea truly is dead!” he called. “I swear it by the Blessed One. She can’t threaten you or your kin anymore.”

  Zethrindor sneered. “Is this ploy the best that doddering old druid could conceive?”

  Trembling slight
ly, as though susceptible to the cold for the first time in his life, the youthful giant stepped forth from the crowd. “My lord,” he said, his voice breaking, albeit, octaves lower than if a smaller creature were speaking.

  Zethrindor’s withered head jerked around to glower at him. “What?”

  The giant swallowed. “Is Iyraclea dead? You have yet to deny it outright, and we’ve all noticed she doesn’t appear to us anymore. Nor do her Icy Claws come bringing us her orders.”

  “Because,” Will said, “the gelugons were her familiar spirits, and now that she’s dead, they’ve gone home to whichever hell she whistled them out of. Come on, Zethrindor, tell your faithful followers the truth! You know better than anyone that the Ice Queen’s dead, because you killed her, when you absented yourself from your army some tendays back!”

  Though Will found it difficult to conceive, it was possible that some of Iyraclea’s vassals—the frost giants, perhaps, whose fundamental natures partook of ice and cold—had served her out of honest devotion rather than fear. If so, he hoped this particular revelation would rouse a thirst for vengeance.

  Zethrindor laughed, a nasty sound like stones grinding together. “All right, halfling, have it your way. I admit it. I killed her, for the crime of imagining she could dictate to a superior being, and that’s why this witless little plan of yours will come to nothing. These folk understand that if I could destroy the Ice Queen, favored of Auril, the tyrant and supreme terror of the Great Glacier, then I can annihilate them just as easily. Any one of them, or all of them together. Their only hope of survival is to please me.”

  “If you were all that mighty,” Jivex piped, “you wouldn’t hang back and let them do all the fighting.”

  “It’s proper,” said Zethrindor, “for thralls to fight and die for their king, just as it’s proper for those who insult him to suffer for their impertinence.”

  Swift as an arrow launched from a bow, he lunged.

  17 Uktar, the Year of Rogue Dragons

  Will had plainly hit on some sort of scheme, probably a risky one, and Pavel was disinclined to let him and Jivex attempt it by themselves. He started after them, but at that moment, cold, swirling, milky fog billowed into existence around him, a magical effect surely intended to blind him and everyone else in the immediate vicinity. Hunter’s instinct, or perhaps the Morninglord himself, warned him what was coming next.